Revenge Cafe

By Lisa Shiroff

In the tradition of Carl Hiaasen, REVENGE CAFE is a tropical mystery with a little humor and heat. And it's now available in a newly revised edition!

Mandy is probably the only person ever to become addicted to therapy. But after getting fired from her job and totaling her car (again), she gives up the therapist's couch cold turkey and moves to the Caribbean. Her old friend, Chance, is waiting for her there with the promise of a fresh start in life. She'll have her dream career of running a restaurant. She'll live in paradise where the relaxed pace makes stress impossible. She'll have all the rum she could ever want always within arm's reach. What could possibly go wrong?

 

Lots. Apparently, lots could go wrong.

 

Shortly after landing on island, Mandy discovers Chance's murdered body in the restaurant's freezer. And his death might just be her fault. Topping the list of suspects is Mandy's old boyfriend and a former police officer whose "former" status is all Mandy's doing. But when she learns Chance had been dabbling in a variety of activities that may or may not have been legal, not only does the list of suspects grow, but it seems she's now positioned to be the next victim.

Meanwhile, she's juggling the responsibilities of managing the restaurant and planning Chance's memorial, both of which she is ill-equipped to do, particularly while lacking the advice of a good shrink. On top of that there's a ghost in the dining room messing up closing time and a too-sexy police detective vying for her attention. Oh yeah, and that killer who's still on the loose is possibly drinking on the bar stool next to her.

 

They say revenge is sweet, but Mandy's pretty sure it's sweetest when it's on the rocks. If only she lives long enough to taste test that theory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Shiroff
• Release date: Feb 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224497041

Lisa Shiroff

Lisa Shiroff is a comedic fiction writer celebrating the often unnoticed but beautifully bizarre in life. For years, she worked professionally as a corporate freelance writer and graphic designer. Not only can she Photoshop her way into a royal wedding, but she can write a PR piece that will make a cat in a tattered wolf costume sound like a Westminster Dog Show champion. But the struggle to keep her tongue out of her cheek was giving her TMJ symptoms and she decided she'd had enough. It was time she joined the ranks of those intent on using humor to balance out the negatives in the universe. Now she is unleashing her comedic perspective on anyone willing to take the risk to read whatever she writes. Having spent her formative years in small-town America, Lisa mastered the ability to amuse herself and others with tales about people we all wished lived next door (and some who really did). Now she’s bringing those stories to light in novels with funny characters experiencing sometimes inane circumstances and always finding happy endings (yes, she’s a sucker for them). Almost living the American Dream, Lisa lives in south Jersey with her husband, two kids, and a dog. Alas, she has no picket fence.

Book preview

DEDICATION

––––––––

To my husband and family who don’t seem to mind my obsession with the islands.

Preface

Most who visit the U.S. Virgin Islands can easily attest to the natural beauty of the landscape and the easy friendliness of the people who live there. Those who are more sensitive can feel the almost palpable vibrations left by the myriad souls who had made the islands their home, either intentionally or unintentionally, since pre-Columbian times.

A unique characteristic that is plainly evident, though, is the way the Islanders have transformed the English language to fit them and their unique style. To honor their distinct use of the language, I sought input from Islanders on pronunciation and even spelling to do my best to reflect it in this work.

I also tried hard to stick to the real geographic layout of St. Thomas, but I did use a little poetic license for this book. The Revenge Café is a fictional restaurant. The Villa Olga estate, however, is a real place that also happens to have a real restaurant on premises, one with amazing food, views, and (rumor has it) there might just be a ghost there, too. But the similarities stop there. All people, events, and even menu items are figments of my imagination (or, in the case of the menu, foods I’ve played around with in my home kitchen). Also, Villa Olga in the book sits in a slightly different place than it does on the real island so that it can be seen from a (fictional) sundry shop.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: In Search of a Key Ingredient

A Rastafarian man I’d never met held a cardboard sign with my name scrawled across it in black marker. Wearing dark sunglasses, wrinkled green khakis, and a bright yellow T-shirt, he leaned against a trashcan in the arrivals pick-up area of the St. Thomas airport in the U.S. Virgin Islands.

That would be me, I said, pointing to the sign. I’m Mandy Breen.

Welcome! He smiled like a Cheshire cat and lifted his sunglasses to look at me below their rims. I am Charlie.

He took my carry-on and led me past the taxis and courtesy car shuttles. We crossed a throughway, entered a rental car lot, meandered our way to a set of stone steps in the back, climbed up, and then proceeded down a road. Eventually, we stopped in front of an illegally parked, once white but now mostly rusted pick-up truck.

I’m sorry, I said. But I think there’s been a mistake. A man named Chance Abbott was supposed to arrange a car for me.

No mistake. Charlie threw my carry-on into the truck bed. I’s taking you to Chancey.

You? I rubbed a spot of powdery rust on the hood. My finger poked through. In this?

Yeah. I drive you to him. Charlie jumped over the tailgate and into what appeared to be leftovers from a garage sale piled in the truck bed. His waist-length dreadlocks swung behind him like wind-whipped tree branches. Or maybe like tentacles reaching out to capture prey.

That’s a good one. I forced a laugh. I don’t know what Chance put you up to, but the joke’s over. Where’s my real ride?

No joke. Charlie stood straight. I take you to Chancey.

Chance hired you to drive me?

Chancey needed a favor. He shrugged. I owed him one.

Oh, God. I leaned against the truck and rummaged through my purse for my cell.

You sick? Charlie asked.

Not in the way you mean it. I rammed my hand through every nook and cranny of the bag until I unearthed my phone. After several rings, Chance’s voice mail clicked on. I hung up without saying anything and threw the phone back in my purse. The bugger obviously chickened out.

So, did Chance mention anything to you about my condition? I asked.

Condition? Charlie stopped rearranging his loot and looked at me. A shadeless lamp was tucked under one arm.

I suffer from something called amaxophobia. Ever hear of it?

He straightened and shook his head.

I cleared my throat and swallowed my pride.

It’s the fear of riding in cars.

Charlie’s mouth twisted into a shape that suggested there might be bad fish nearby. What you mean?

I mean I get scared, really scared, and for what most people think is no reason, when I’m a passenger in a car. Sometimes I get so scared I kind of freak out.

Ah. He nodded. I get it. I don’t like snakes. I’s afraid of dem and freak out when I see one. He set the lamp on top of my carry-on, which was on top of an old tool chest. No worries. I be careful. He bound everything together with a fraying bungee cord and gave me a thumbs-up before jumping out of the truck bed.

Don’t suppose I could drive, could I? I asked. I usually don’t have a problem when I’m the driver.

She got a touchy clutch. You good w’ a stick?

I shook my head.

Like I say. I be careful. Charlie’s smile was wide enough and bright enough for me to believe he meant what he said. He fumbled in his cargo pockets, presumably looking for his keys. I watched him and took long, deep, calming breaths. Sometimes they were aptly named. Sometimes. Sometimes they made me hyperventilate.

With keys in hand, Charlie manually unlocked the passenger door and opened it for me.

H’yeh, he grunted. I wasn’t sure if he’d said hey you, or here, or if he had simply hiccupped. Every time I’d been to the Virgin Islands in the past, I’d picked up a little of the dialect, but I had a long way to go before I could say I was fluent. Fo’ true. I be careful, he added.

I channeled my inner-red engine and took a step toward the truck. After another long inhale, I ducked inside and sat down on the bench-style seat, which happened to be held together with peeling silver duct tape. Charlie closed the door, and I exhaled. On the next in-breath, I reached for the seatbelt over my shoulder. There was none. Fear bubbled up from my bowels. My fingers scrambled along the floor, near the door. No belt. I slammed myself upright and opened my mouth to speak. But I couldn’t make any noise with all that breath whooshing in and out.

Next thing I knew, Charlie was in the driver’s seat. The truck’s engine was gunning, and we were pulling out into traffic.

Within seconds, I was in a full-blown panic attack. Yet, Charlie drove like he had not a care in the world. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other waving in the air, he crooned to a Reggae beat and bewailed the dangers of island politics as if that were all we had to fear in this world.

Use both hands! I screamed, batting at his free arm.

Thunk! The truck slammed into a pothole. I bounced hard in my seat. My head bumped against the window.

Jesus! You’re going to kill us! I yelled. Slow down!

But Charlie was deaf to my screams, unaware of my pleas to be careful, oblivious even to my fingernails digging into his arm and thigh. My ears tingled, my cheeks burned: tell-tale signs I was on the verge of fainting. Frantic to stay conscious, I threw my head between my knees and clutched the bars on the underside of the seat.

I rode in that almost fetal position for the rest of the ride. My tears splashed the filthy floorboards as I swore I would kill Chance. I would tackle the British bastard, wrap my hands around his neck, and squeeze until he turned purple and died, or until my arms gave out.

––––––––

A lifetime later, the truck slowed to a stop. I heard the gears shift and the engine shut down. With the caution of a snake handler, I lifted my head and dared to look out the window. Much to my relief and surprise, we were not dangling over a cliff. We were in a parking lot edging a harbor, and all four of the truck’s wheels were touching the pavement.

Relief washed through me as I recognized the area. In front of me, the port city of Charlotte Amalie spread in a half-circle around Long Bay. Just beyond the sea wall was a busy strait separating St. Thomas from Hassell Island. Off to its right was Water Island. The tiny, emerald green, palm-tree dotted isles created a postcard backdrop for the cruise ships and luxury yachts sailing in the dark blue water around them.

The boats glowed ethereal white in the early evening sun, like transporters from heaven anchored in the harbor for a Caribbean holiday. The smoothness of their languid dance as they glided past each other soothed me. My breath slowed. The pounding heartbeat in my ears faded. The adrenaline oozed out of my system.

We here, Charlie announced after a few minutes of me not moving. I heard his door squeak when he opened it to step out of the truck.

I exited my side. Grateful to be in contact with the earth again, I stretched, arching my back until it cracked. The Rasta’s eyes zeroed in on my chest.

So, uh, where’s Chance? I shrugged into a slump.

Probly up dere, in de restaurant. Charlie tilted his head toward a set of stone steps climbing a hill. Yeah, Chancey be here. Dere’s his Jeep. He pointed to the end of the lot where a newer, dark green, Jeep Grand Cherokee was parked.

It was the closest to love at first sight I’d ever experienced. As part of the deal for me to move to the island, Chance had promised I could drive his car until I bought one of my own or found a place to live within walking distance of the restaurant. I’d been dreading his old Jeep, an abused, ancient, rag-top Wrangler. But this beauty had potential. It looked capable, rugged, reliable, tough, almost safe.

Charlie pulled my carry-on from the truck. Eh, why you no go w’ me to Duffy’s? he asked. I go dere now, you know. Maybe you could ha’ a drink an’ relax some ‘fore you meet up w’Chancey. His eyes returned to hover below my neck.

No, thank you. I took my bag, amazed yet again, by the power of boobs. Nothing rivals their ability to make a man overlook truly pathetic qualities, even bizarre phobias, in a woman. I need to find Chance. I’m sure you’re right, and he’s just inside.

Okay. But I be dere if you change yo mind. Charlie returned to his truck.

I headed over to the stairs and glanced back at the Grand Cherokee. Now that the initial rosy glow of my crush had passed, the Jeep bothered me. It looked lonely there in the lot. And I found it odd that Chance hadn’t mentioned buying it. Its shiny and obvious newness suggested he’d only had it a short while. It would have been smarter of him to buy it after I was done using it. Cars don’t stay shiny and new very long for me. I wondered how long I’d be able to keep it pretty and whether or not Chance would renege his offer after the first scratch.

With a sigh, I climbed the stairs, letting my carry-on bang against each step behind me.

At the top, I found a walkway flanked by a series of small potted palm trees and covered by a crimson awning. It led to a pristine, white stucco building whose roof matched the awning, as if both were equally burned by the tropical sun. Pink bougainvillea climbed the walls on blue trellises, and carved into the hill on one side of the walkway was a limestone patio area, complete with an empty fire pit and unlit tiki torches.

I headed down the walkway and stopped before a set of closed, oversized, frosted-glass doors. Etched palm trees ran the full height, providing swaths of clear glass that were not quite wide enough to see anything recognizable within. Above the doors hung a lacquered wooden sign: Welcome to the Revenge Café.

Wow. I paused for a couple of heartbeats, my hand resting on a door handle. Adrenaline re-emerged and sparked throughout my body. This time from anticipation, not from fear. Here it was, framed in a tropical island setting, our, my, dream-come-true.

I was on the cusp of an exotic new beginning. One I’d been fantasizing about for far too long. No longer would I be a TV investigative reporter wearing straight skirts and high heels working in a tough city. Instead, I’d be a restaurateur, working my dream job in breezy tops and flip flops, living in paradise.

I could feel the smile spreading across my face. I was almost tingling with excitement, almost giddy. Only almost because my reporter’s hackles were raised. The place was stunning and ideally located. I’d been expecting a tiny hole-in-the-wall that was more of a bar than a restaurant. One where Chance and I would probably be the only two people working, and maybe the only two dining. I wasn’t aware Chance had the means to buy a property of this caliber.

Ignoring the doubt trying to settle on my shoulders, I pulled open a door. No one greeted me.

Chance? I hollered. No answer. I walked toward the host’s pedestal. Yo! Chance!

Still, no reply.

Yeah. You should be scared, I said as I entered the dining room. After that ride you just put me through. You know I’ll get even.

I walked on tiptoes, expecting him to yell, Surprise! at any second. But no one greeted me. The place was empty. Perhaps he was giving me the opportunity to savor the sight. He did, after all, manage to create our ideal restaurant, just as we’d always envisioned. Dark rattan furniture was balanced out with crisp white linens. Brass accents shone as if freshly polished. Ceiling fans rotated in languid circles, and live palm trees framed the doors and windows. There was even a gleaming white piano on a tiny stage in one corner. The restaurant was the perfect dining tableau.

Except near the back—something was wrong. It looked like someone had ripped the cloth off a table, not caring that a candle had toppled over, and a crystal vase went flying. Letting go of my carry-on, I walked toward it. Broken glass crunched beneath my sandals.

Chance? I stopped. Is everything okay? I kicked the shards from my shoe, and gingerly made my way to the other side of the table.

Chance? I tried one more time. I was at the rear of the room and not sure what to do. To my right was what looked like a dark office area; to my left appeared to be the kitchen, where the lights were on. I chose the lighted route and pushed open a swinging door.

Again, perfection greeted me. Red tiled backsplashes gleamed along the walls. Obviously new pots and pans were lined up according to size and hung from hooks extended from the ceiling. Shiny stainless steel sinks and appliances stood next to each other at the ready for service like soldiers at boot camp graduation.

Something smelled delicious—a lobster or crab something. My nose led to me to a slow cooker pot, the kind you’d find in a home kitchen, not in a restaurant. I thought I knew what was inside and unlocked the lid to discover I was right: lobster stew, one of Chance’s favorite recipes. Inhaling deeply, I completely forgave Chance for Charlie and the rickety truck. The stew was good enough to be his penance for just about anything.

On the counter opposite the slow cooker was a large wooden salad bowl surrounded by an assortment of greens and vegetables. Next to that counter was an open door to a refrigerated pantry. By the looks of things, Chance had been frantic to find something and had tossed about fresh produce in a desperate search. Had he realized he was missing something important for our meal and gone out on foot to get it?

Chance? I slammed the pantry shut. C’mon! Where are you?

I spun around. My sandal slid on something squishy, and I lost balance. Reaching out to grab hold of anything to keep from falling, I unintentionally pushed down on a different door handle. That door opened, and I discovered Chance hadn’t gone in search of a key ingredient. He was still in the restaurant, in the walk-in freezer, to be precise.

And he was dead.

Chapter 2: Breathe Deep

Chance’s body was seated in a giant, white cake. His arms pulled behind him. His head pressed into the top tier.

No, no, no. I heard someone saying. It had to have been me since there was no one else around. I backed from the freezer, unable to look away from him. His lifeless lips and one eye were swollen, almost distorted out of shape. The other eye bugged out at me as if surprised by my arrival. Icing covered most of his face, but for one clean cheek. I found myself reaching out, wanting to touch that cheek.

I slammed the freezer shut instead.

My breath gasped, my vision tunneled.

Oh, my God! I fell to my knees, pressing my fists hard into my eyes as if that could erase the vision. My ears filled with static that was so loud I could barely hear the tiny voice inside my head telling me I should do something useful.

With the side of a counter for leverage, I managed to make myself stand and, after a nanosecond too confused to move, I ran out of the kitchen. A phone was near the end of the bar. I picked up the receiver and punched in nine-one-one.

––––––––

Sometime later, I wasn’t sure how long—an hour? Two? Three? I found myself being fingerprinted and then told to wait by a desk in a tiny, orange, windowless room at the Alexander Farrelly Criminal Justice Center. The police station was in the island’s Superior Court building, a large stucco facility across the street from the harbor—the same harbor that housed the Revenge Café. Like the harbor, I was very familiar with that building. I had spent a considerable amount of time there a few years earlier while I’d investigated a story. But I’d never been in that room before.

I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten there. I was in such a traumatized state after seeing Chance in the freezer that I couldn’t quite recall everything that had happened immediately afterward. I remembered a rush of energy, flashing lights, and uniformed people running and shouting. Then everything slowed down when I heard someone say the body, which meant the dead body, which meant Chance’s dead body.

The words swirled around my head, unwilling to settle down and make a meaning I could accept. How could Chance be dead? Was he killed? Could it have been some kind of accident?

I ran my hands through my hair. The movement pulled the fuzziness from my brain. I realized that not only did the police think Chance had been murdered, but since they fingerprinted me, they must consider me a suspect.

I reached for my purse to get my cell. It was late on a Sunday evening, so I wasn’t sure whom I could call for help, but it didn’t matter. I had no purse.

As if suddenly exposed to the elements, I covered my chest and stomach with my arms. They had my bag! My phone! Judging by the behavior of the Virgin Islands PD from back in my reporter days, it was too easy for me to imagine the police planting evidence on me, in my purse. It would be very bad press for an island whose main industry is tourism if the murderer of a white British citizen was never to be found. But powerful and good press if they could quickly find a handy, white mainlander to pin it on.

I stormed over to the door, yanked it open, and nearly plowed into a tall, solidly built man. I met his dark brown eyes and had to grip tighter to the doorknob to keep from falling over. They were the kind of eyes that, if I met them in a bar, tended to get me in trouble. And at first, they seemed equally surprised and intrigued by my baby blues. But then I caught the glimmer of a VIPD badge clipped to his collar around the same time it appeared to register in him why I was in that room. We both regained composure, and his eyes went into attack mode, reminding me I was the one who most recently had ink on her fingers.

Can I help you? he asked. He looked to be a few years older than I was, maybe in his early- or mid-thirties, and had an air of authority about him that gave me the impression he took for granted he was always in command.

I’d like my purse. I glared at him, forcing him to recognize me as the alpha female.

It will be returned to you shortly. He stepped past me and walked to the desk. Please have a seat. I have a few questions for you.

Not wanting to be chased through the building, I did as instructed and returned to my chair. He sat on the other side of the desk and flipped the pages back on a yellow notepad. I couldn’t help but notice how his mocha biceps flexed, just a little, beneath the sleeves of his navy blue, Polo-style shirt.

Ms. Breen, I’m Detective Matthew Piper. He spoke slowly, almost sounding like a mainlander. Before you say anything, I’d like you to know this was my weekend with my sons. They were supposed to be with me through dinner tonight, after which I was to put them on the water taxi to go back to their mamma on St. Croix. I had to send them to her early because of this incident today. I’m not happy about that, and I’m hungry. Let’s not waste time.

Sounds like you should have grabbed the stew. Similar to Pavlov’s dog drooling at the sound of a bell, I turn into a smart-ass at the sound of a male who thinks he’s in charge. The reflex used to come in handy when I was a reporter.

What stew? Piper asked.

The lobster stew cooking at the Revenge Café.

He walked over to the door and leaned out.

Ho, McFadden! he yelled down the hall. Make sure someone at that restaurant checks the stoves and ovens. We can’t let that place burn down again.

What do you mean, ‘again’? I asked when Piper returned to his seat.

You’re not the one who gets to ask questions right now.

Oh, right. I leaned back in my chair. That would be you.

Correct. He took up his former position with hands together over the legal pad, eyes leveled with mine, back straight, and slightly exposed biceps. You were unintelligible when you arrived, so I need to clarify some information. You will be free to go when we are done. He paused. I nodded. Good. When was the last time you saw Mr. Abbott?

In my head flew the myriad phone calls and emails, but nothing face-to-face seemed to be a recent memory. Maybe a year ago?

You don’t sound certain.

I am. I think. Maybe. I blinked a few times. "I mean, the last time I saw Chance alive, in person, was about a year ago."

In person, huh? He dropped his pencil and rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. "Does that mean you’ve seen him, alive, in some other way? If so, when and how?"

We web-cammed recently. I watched him make a note and noticed it was half-way down the page. So when do you think I could get my purse back?

He looked at me from under his eyebrows. Let me check, he said as he stood.

After he exited the room, I stretched over the desk as far as I could without completely coming off my chair to read what was on the notepad. Unfortunately, there weren’t as many lines as I’d thought, and apparently the buff detective never got an A in penmanship.

How recently did you webcam with Mr. Abbott? Piper startled me when he returned. I sat back in the chair and accepted my purse. He took his former seat and tapped the notepad closer to his side.

I think maybe two days ago. I combed through the mess in my bag, but I could not determine whether they’d taken anything.

And then you decided to visit him?

I’m not really visiting. I was to move here.

Was to? Are you still?

I don’t know. I was also to become his business partner, co-owner of the restaurant and—

Again, what do you mean by ‘was to become?’ Who owns it now?

An awareness of just how screwed up my life had become slammed into me. I closed my eyes and held my head in my hand, taking my time to answer. Apparently, I took too long.

Ms. Breen, his voice raised a decibel. I can easily find who the owner of the property is tomorrow morning, when the—

I’m sorry, jeez! I threw up my hand in exasperation. You know, this isn’t the easiest thing in the world for me. It’s a little hard to think straight right now.

I apologize if it seems we’re impatient.

I would call it harsh and insensitive.

It appears your business partner was murdered, and the sooner I get all the facts regarding his situation, the better.

Ugh. He was right.

Who owns the restaurant now? he asked.

Chance owned the restaurant.

By himself?

I believe so.

Does he own any others?

No.

Where did he work before?

For himself. He was a special event photographer.

He went from photographer to restaurant owner? Piper tilted his head to one side. That’s quite a career change. Was there a sudden incentive for him to do it?

Not really. It was a long-awaited dream-come-true.

How long?

I don’t know. Maybe ten years?

That must mean he wanted you to be his partner because you have the experience?

No. I just shared the dream.

He stared at me instead of writing that answer down.

How long have you owned that property? he asked.

Chance bought it a couple of months ago.

And aside from yourself, are there any other investors?

N-no, I verbally stumbled.

Piper’s eyes pierced mine like specialized X-ray machines programmed to detect lies and sins. Are you sure?

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure. Nor was I really an investor, but I wasn’t convinced it would be a good idea to correct him and explain what I was.

So, about your arrival today, he knew you were coming?

Yes.

"He knew the exact date and